


A Brand Plucked Out of the Burning

by Gramarye



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 17th Century, Additional Warnings Apply, Gen, Harm to Children, Massachusetts, New England, Temporary Character Death, Translation Available, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gramarye/pseuds/Gramarye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long absence from the New World, England travels into the northern reaches of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in search of young America -- and discovers the horrific lengths to which fear of witchcraft has driven some of his colonists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brand Plucked Out of the Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Hetalia anon-meme request about colonial!America being caught up in the Salem witch trials. This story is set about two decades before the Salem outbreak, but draws upon records of related witchcraft accusations and trials from colonial Massachusetts and Connecticut. (From a purely physical appearance, America looks to be about 9 or 10 years of age at the time of this incident.) Full historical notes are at the end.
> 
> WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of death by hanging.
> 
> A Russian translation of this story (Головня, исторгнутая из огня) by [Пеле](https://ficbook.net/authors/19813) is available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4328323). Many thanks and a world of gratitude for the translation!

__  
**Essex County, Massachusetts Bay Colony**  
  
_November 1674_

As his horse picked its way along the frost-hardened ruts of the cart track, England pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders and tried not to think too wistfully of hot spiced wine and snug chimney corners. It was doubtful that America would have either to hand, not this far from Boston, but England would be thankful for a mug of small beer and a three-legged stool before the fire if it did something to draw the lingering chill from his bones.

He had been away from the New World for far too long, and he still was not accustomed to the sensations that had been sweeping over him ever since he had landed on its shores almost a fortnight before. The winter air here was so sharp and clean that it almost hurt to breathe it, half a world away from the pall of smoke that blurred London into a haze of grimy streets. The rivers flowed too swiftly, too sweetly, so very unlike the sluggish tidal washes of the Thames that it was hard to believe that the water they carried came from the depths of the same earth. And the people, his colonists...well, they too seemed different, weathered and worn by their struggle to eke out a living in this often-inhospitable land but not ground down to weariness by a generation of war, fire, plague, and Commonwealth. It was a strange mix of feelings, almost disorienting, but he knew that it would pass before long. There was little he could do but ride it out.

Which was precisely what he was doing, after a fashion.

America had not been in Boston to greet him, though that was not entirely unexpected. After all, he had no reason to assume that England would make the crossing in winter, when the North Atlantic was treacherous enough to give even a seasoned sailor pause. But England's ship had arrived without incident, and he had taken only a few days to settle his most pressing affairs in town before he found a fresh horse and headed north, following the instinct that all nations had when seeking out the presence of one of their own.

(Oh, if only it had been south. Virginia would be far more pleasant at this time of year, and even the cluster of settlements and trading posts he'd finally managed to wrest from the Netherlands would be ever-so-slightly warmer than the Bay Colony. But north it was, and north he went.)

He hoped that he would not have to travel much farther inland. Before he had departed the last time ( _barely thirty years before? it felt a hundred lifetimes to him_ ), he had warned the young colony to stay well within reach of settled lands and not to fraternise with the savage tribes that lurked in the forest depths, beyond the guiding hand of civilisation. How well America had obeyed his injunction was anyone's guess, but he would know soon enough.

Thin trails of smoke rising against the dull grey horizon hinted at the nearness of a village, a little larger than most of the hamlets he had seen since leaving Boston. England gave his horse a bit of leg, easing it out of its working trot and into a gentle canter. Once he reached the village, he would take a few moments to reorient himself and regain the lay of the land, and perhaps find someone who would take his coin in exchange for a hot drink. He might even be able to enquire after America, albeit discreetly.

It wasn't until he came within sight of the village's meeting house that he felt the first stirrings -- a faint, skin-crawling sensation that made him shift uneasily in his seat -- that all was not well in this place.

It was difficult to describe precisely what stirred his unease. At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary. The village seemed neat and well ordered, with its ploughed-under fields and tidy kitchen garden plots and simply-built dwellings for men and beasts. The smoke of kitchen fires rose steadily into the crisp November air. Not a soul was out of doors; it was so quiet and still that one could almost hear the crackle of the logs burning in the hearths. All seemed to be as it should be -- but England's civil war was too fresh in his memory for him to be deceived by outward appearances. During the worst of the fighting, he had ridden through a score of villages like this one, with their doors shut tight and their streets empty and not so much as a stray chicken in sight. Where the men had gone off to fight and die for king or Parliament, where the women and children were at the mercy of marauding armies that were more interested in pillage than in politics. The silence that hung over this place was strained almost to the breaking point, as if every living thing had decided to hold its breath at the same moment.

Even if England could not give it a name, there was no mistaking the aura of the place: it was a village huddled in on itself for protection, sunk in the depths of fear.

Sensing its rider's discomfort, or perhaps acting on its own sense of self-preservation, England's horse tossed its head and balked, pawing at the ground. England clucked impatiently and tried to regain control with careful application of reins and legs, but the nervous creature would have none of it. It tossed its head again, and whickered its displeasure even as England did his best to keep his seat.

Rather than risk being thrown, England decided to switch tactics. He leaned forward and stroked the horse's neck and withers, making soothing sounds deep in his throat in an attempt to calm it down. Gradually, the horse seemed to relax, though its twitching ears showed that it was still wary of its surroundings.

'There's a love,' England murmured, gently patting the broad neck. 'No need to fret, that's right.' He slid his boot from the stirrup, prepared to dismount and lead the horse through the village on foot, when a movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. He looked up, and saw the door of a nearby wood-frame house open and a young woman slip out, wrapping an old shawl about her head and shoulders as she closed the door behind her.

The woman hurried towards him, the soles of her shoes slapping on the hard ground. England took close hold of the reins in case his horse lost its head again, but then the woman suddenly stopped a dozen paces away from him -- as if she'd realised that she'd mistaken him for someone else.

On closer inspection, the woman turned out to be barely out of girlhood, all wide eyes in a pink-cheeked face framed with the wisps of hair that tumbled out of her white cap. In service, by the look of her dress and bearing, common enough for girls her age. The girl, in turn, took in England's fine wool cloak and polished boots and well-fed horse, and decided that he was a man to be curtseyed to before anything else. But before England could raise a hand to return the greeting, she tilted her head to one side and asked, with a tremor in her voice:

'Have you come for the hanging, sir?'

The question was phrased so innocently that it took England a full five seconds to realise exactly what the girl had said.

'For the what?' he said, frowning in puzzlement. 'The _hanging_?'

The girl nodded. 'Master an' the Reverend an' the rest of the men -- they've gone to hang the witch who brought the fever on Miss Susannah and all the others, sir.'

'Witch?' England's frown deepened. This was news to him. A charge of witchcraft was a grave matter indeed, with warrants and grand juries and all the proceedings that his laws deemed necessary to bring the accused to trial. If any of the county courts had passed sentence on a witch within their jurisdictions, word of the verdict would have been all over Boston. But this was the first he had heard of any recent witch trials, let alone planned executions. 'When was this?'

'They've not been gone long, sir.' Her face seemed to brighten, as if she hoped that she could be of assistance to the well-to-do stranger. 'And the hill's not far from here, if you're riding, so -- '

' _Rebecca!_ ' A woman's voice, sharp and fearful, cut into her reply in mid-sentence. 'Get back in this house at _once_!'

The servant girl startled, her eyes wide with fright, and she whirled round. England followed her gaze to the open door of the house she had come out of, where a thin-faced older woman was peering out at both of them with the deepest suspicion.

'Y...Yes, missus!' The girl glanced back at England, and dropped another hasty curtsey. 'Your pardon, please, sir,' she said, and scurried back to the house where her mistress was waiting.

England watched her go, and his concern was not eased in the slightest by what happened next. Once the girl was within reach, her mistress seized her by the arm and slapped her full across the face, the blow echoing dully in the cold, still air. As she bodily dragged the girl back into the house, England heard the woman's voice raised once more, its anger tinged with a note of hysteria. 'You foolish little slattern, I _told_ you to keep indoors!'

If the girl tried to reply, England did not hear it, for the door slammed shut an instant later.

Now, at least, he had an idea of what was causing the fear that seemed to permeate this entire village. A witch who had brought fever on multiple persons, by the sound of it...but then it was all the more peculiar that he had heard nothing of it until this very moment.

Shivering a little, he tried to shake off the unpleasant feeling as he gathered up the reins once more. Whatever the situation, this witch business was not his concern. He would go around this miserable little village, across the fields, whatever it took to keep moving. He had to find America and get both of them back to Boston before the snows came and made it too difficult to travel.

With a quick tug on the reins, he turned his horse around and set off on his interrupted journey.

****

His instincts told him to continue on his northerly course, so to avoid the village he took to the open fields, swinging westwards in a wide arc that would bring him around and back to the main road once more. He kept a brisk pace, allowing just enough slack on the reins to maintain the trot without much effort on his part, and fell into the steady rhythm of hooves on frozen earth.

Even though he had left the little cluster of houses well behind him, his thoughts kept returning to it. It did no good to attempt to turn his mind elsewhere; the more he tried, the more he heard that servant girl's voice ringing in his head.

_Have you come for the hanging, sir?_

Not _this_ hanging, clearly, but he was no stranger to the proceedings, and every one of them left a foul taste in his mouth. They followed a depressingly predictable pattern: the accused witch was some ancient spinster or widowed beldame, forced to depend on the charity she could beg from door to door, who'd grumbled once too often within earshot of her neighbours and was the first to be blamed when the beer wouldn't brew or a good cow fell lame or a new mother was delivered of a stillborn babe. If the case went before a magistrate, more often than not the poor old woman would be confused or frightened enough to confess to most any charge laid at her feet, though she was no more a servant of the Devil than England was a milk-jug. And it seldom stopped with the one accusation, or the one confession, or even the one conviction.

_Have you come for the hanging, sir?_

His own people were not even the worst of the lot when it came to witch-madness. England had heard of far worse on the Continent, tales too horrific to be mere rumours, of trials that ended with scores of women, men, even young children delivered over to the executioners to meet fates a thousand times more cruel than that found at the end of a hangman's rope. What truly sickened him about such things was that whatever those poor souls had done to deserve such an end, it wasn't _magic_. England _knew_ magic, the old ways and workings that had long been lost to mortal memory, and he would never deny that there was a world beyond the ken of most. But he held his tongue about it these days -- it was easier that way, for all that it felt like a betrayal -- and left the burden of proof to the law courts.

'The law courts....' he murmured, only half-aware that he had spoken aloud. The charge of witchcraft demanded a full investigation and trial, as for any other felony crime; that much, at least, he had been able to insist on in the last witchcraft bill that had received the Royal Assent. But to his knowledge, no formal accusation of witchcraft had been brought before the Bay Colony's sessional courts or even the local magistrates, not in several years. And yet from the way that servant girl had spoken, the accused witch had been tried and convicted already -- with the sentence on the point of being carried out.

_Have you come for the hanging --_

'No!' he said suddenly, with a forcefulness that made his horse snort anxiously and had the added effect of startling a flock of blackbirds in a nearby field. They rose into the air in a flurry of feathers, croaking bitterly at England for his intrusion, before wheeling about and winging off in search of a place where they would not be disturbed.

Embarrassed, and irritated at his embarrassment, England brought his horse to a halt and paused to take stock of his surroundings. It was getting on for mid-afternoon, if his reckoning of sun and shadow was correct. He had given the village a wide enough berth, for the fields were yielding to the scrubby edges of woodland that had not been cleared for cultivation. He would ride a little further, gradually veering east, until he passed the rise of that hill where the blackbirds had settled --

\-- but when he looked at the hill more closely, he saw that the dark cluster that he had initially taken for the blackbirds was too large to be the same flock he had startled earlier. It looked more like a crowd of people, perhaps no more than a score or so, gathered around a single large tree at the very top of the hill.

And as his gaze travelled higher, the bottom fell out of England's stomach when he saw that another dark shape was suspended above them, dangling from one of the tree's spreading branches.

_Have you come for the --_

_'No!'_ England shouted again, this time fully aware of his own voice.

In the same instant, he drove his heels into his horse's sides, spurring them towards the hill.

He flew across the open ground at full gallop, bent low over the horse's back. Fleetingly, he wished for a riding crop, a carriage whip, anything for an extra burst of speed, for the hill was more than a half-mile distant and he had no way of knowing how long the poor woman had been hanging. Every second that passed was a second wasted.

As he drew nearer to the hill, he spared only the briefest glance at the crowd gathered about the base of the tree. A double handful of men, all farmers by the look of them, without a hint of steel or dull glint of musket that would make matters more difficult for him. This hanging was truly a hasty affair, borne of fear and desperation, and it showed in every horrible detail. A length of rope knotted and thrown over a tree branch, a ragged scrap of cloth covering the face of the condemned woman -- but then England realised that the dangling figure wore breeches instead of skirts, and even from a distance he could see how small it was, surely too small to be even half a man's height --

( _it was a child, a child, how could they be hanging a_ child)

\-- and he let out an oath as the sickening _wrongness_ of the situation hit him all at once.

This was a cruelty he had not dared to imagine. An ordinary man might be fortunate enough to have the knot of the noose break his neck on the drop, falling to a quick and relatively painless death. A less fortunate man would strangle with his neck unbroken, the rope biting into the soft flesh of his throat as his body's own weight dragged him down into darkness. But a child would not weigh enough to die swiftly from the drop, or even to lose consciousness in a matter of minutes. Unless his murderers had had enough mercy in their hearts to affix weights to his ankles, the boy would choke to death by inches.

 _Was_ choking to death by inches.

One hand went to the doglock pistol at his belt, but it was a mad impulse that he dismissed the moment it entered his head. At this range, from a moving horse, shooting through the rope was more than a thousand-to-one chance; he ran a greater risk of hitting the child or simply missing outright. He reached for his sword instead, fingers closing about the worn leather of the hilt, and as he prepared to unsheathe it he opened his mouth and drew breath enough to send his voice ringing out ahead of him.

'Cut him down!' Heads began to turn at the sound of England's voice, as sharp and authoritative as if he were issuing commands from the quarterdeck. ' _Cut him down!_ I order you, in the name of the -- '

The rest of the order never made it past his lips.

At that moment, the dangling body convulsed in a sudden pitiful spasm, and the strip of cloth that had been hastily tied about its head slipped loose and fluttered free, uncovering the child's face. And as the cloth fell away, England yanked back on the reins so violently that his horse staggered and reared, hooves thrashing in the air. Maddened with pain, it let out a scream that only just drowned out England's own horrified cry:

' _AMERICA!_ '

The young colony swung gracelessly from the short length of rope, hands bound in front of him and legs lashed together so tightly that they crossed at the ankles, toes pointed like some grim parody of a dancer's leap. America's face was a dreadful purple-red, his lips swollen and blackish-blue, the corners of his mouth edged with froth. The noose had lodged itself under the hinge of his jaw, tilting his head at a grossly unnatural angle, and a trickle of fast-drying blood slid down one cheek from where he had bitten through his lower lip. If he had struggled before, he was not struggling now -- his limbs shook with faint tremors, but that was all.

Even as he lurched in his seat, fighting for some semblance of control over himself and his horse, England felt his last wretched hopes slipping through his fingers. One look had told him that America was too far gone to be saved in this life; even if he were to be cut down immediately, there was little that could be done to revive him. No nation could die permanently from sheer physical trauma -- every one of them had the scars to prove it -- but the process of returning to life could be as agonising as the death itself.

If he wanted to end America's suffering, he had to be quick about it.

His horse's front hooves had barely touched earth again before England was out of his saddle, hitting the ground, racing the final few yards to the tree. He vaguely registered men's voices raised in alarm and hands that tried to catch hold of him, but through his own momentum he shook off his would-be captors and flung himself forward to perform the only act of mercy he could think of.

His hands closed around America's legs, just above the loops of rope binding his ankles together, and he pulled down with all of his strength.

The tree branch creaked in protest at the added weight, but did not give way, and the rope held fast as the knot tightened its stranglehold around America's neck. Reflexively, America's body jerked once, twice, twisting with such violence that England nearly lost his grip on the spasming legs. Little choking gurgles forced their way out of his mouth as he fought for air with the scattered fragments of mindless instinct. And still England held on, pulling him down, praying desperately to any power or deity that he had ever believed in for forgiveness, for absolution --

At long last, after an eternity suspended between one heartbeat and the next, the young colony shuddered for a final time and went limp in England's hands.

England let go of the body, staggering backwards blindly like a man reeling from a blow. Blood roared in his ears, his own heartbeat seeming to mock him with each successive thud. For a moment he thought he would have to bend over and vomit up everything he had eaten in the past half-century, but as he wobbled a few steps away from the tree his watering eyes fell upon the tense, silent crowd of men who had watched him end America's life -- and the nausea was swept away by the rising tide of fury that welled up from some dark place deep within him, coursing through his veins and seething beneath his skin.

 _You could make them dance the devil's jig,_ a little voice sang in his ear, soft and insidious. _String them up and cut them down and string them up again, amuse yourself as you please with them until they squeal like swine for your sword to slit their throats. And no better than they deserve, to a man._

It would be so easy to indulge that little voice and its poison-sweet whisperings. Already he could feel the weight of the weapon in his empty hand, see the ( _cutlass_ ) blade dripping crimson with ( _Spanish_ ) blood. But a colder and far more rational part of his mind told him that revenge was a luxury he did not have the time or the wherewithal to indulge. If there was to be retribution, it could not come at his hands; his first duty was to tend to America, not to punish the all-too-human wretches whose fears had driven them to hang his young colony like vermin from a gamekeeper's gibbet.

Without a word, he crossed the few steps to where he had left his restive, fretful horse and swung himself up into the saddle with effortless ease. The touch of a heel urged his mount forward, bringing him within reach of America's dangling body at a level that would allow him to work unhindered.

Tempting as it was to draw his sword, it would be too unwieldy for the task at hand. Instead, he reached for his belt-knife, briefly testing the edge of the blade with his thumb before attacking the ropes that bound America's legs and wrists together. Once those were gone, he took hold of the knotted noose and made short work of the final rope. The last twisted threads parted with a snap, and America's body tumbled into his arms.

At first, England could do nothing but hold him close, letting America's head loll against his chest. He had grown in England's absence, but he still felt so small and fragile, by all outward appearances still a child to be cosseted and sheltered from the cruelties that men and nations were capable of inflicting on one another. England smoothed down that one stubborn lock of hair that refused to lie flat, even in death, and drew his cloak closer about them, as much to hide the sight of America's contorted expression as to seat them both securely in the saddle.

Only when he was certain that his emotions would not betray him did he raise his head, turning to look at the men still gathered around the tree.

Something of his barely-contained anger must have shown in his eyes, for the nearest of them recoiled instinctively, drawing back a pace or two and forcing those standing further away to retreat in kind. Straight-backed and contemptuous, England let his gaze sweep across the crowd, lingering just long enough on each face to commit it to memory before he finally deigned to speak.

'Go back to your homes,' he commanded, putting the whole weight of his colonial authority behind his words. 'You have done what you came here to do. This child is mine, in death as in life, and I have claim upon his body.'

'Yours?' A lone voice spoke up. 'Who are you, sir, to make such a claim?'

England turned his head, following the sound to its source. The crowd parted slightly, and he saw a dark-haired older man step forward -- and his eyes narrowed when he saw the flash of white clerical bands at the man's throat and the leather-bound book held protectively against his chest.

'You have no right to know my name, _Reverend_ ,' he replied, icy and imperious. 'And I doubt that you would believe me if I gave it to you. So consider this your final warning: you and your flock would be wise to leave this place now and speak no more of the evil that has been done here, lest you have further cause to repent of your sins -- for all the good that repentance will do you, in this world or the next.'

He kept his expression composed, suppressing the unpleasant smile that threatened to surface when he noticed how more than one man in the crowd seemed to quail at the implications of his remark. Remorse and unease were written in every line of their faces, and England had every intention of turning their soul-searching to his advantage. What he had in mind required neither wand nor spell-book, nothing that even the tiniest of fairies would recognise as magic. All that was needed was a sufficiently fearful conscience and the power of suggestion -- the same combination that had led countless women and men to confess to crimes they had never committed, condemning themselves out of their own mouths.

_Let them see what their eyes wish to see. Let them hear what their ears wish to hear. Let them fear what they believe they have cause to fear._

Even a man of some learning was not immune to its effects, for the minister's entire arm shook like a leaf in the wind as he raised it to point a finger at England. 'If you will not give your name,' he declared shrilly, 'then I will give it for you -- begone, demon! Be you the Devil or his servant, you will find no welcome here!'

England laughed, low and terrible, as he gathered the reins tightly in his hands.

'A demon, am I?' he said, with mocking inflection. 'Then I dearly await our next meeting, when I shall _personally_ see to it that all the flames of Hell welcome your thrice-damned souls for the _pack of craven, treacherous murderers you are_!'

****

Afterwards, when the men of the village returned to their homes, their haggard faces and haunted eyes told of a tale that was best left unsaid. Not even those most dear to them could persuade them to speak more than a few faltering words about the fate of the witch, or about the appearance of the unknown gentleman -- if it _had_ been a gentleman, or indeed a man at all, for his eyes had been green as foxfire and his voice had a strange, inhuman resonance to it -- who came on horseback to claim the witch's body. Those who steeled themselves to speak might speak of the death, and even of the claiming...but after that, their recollections began to diverge.

Some spoke of a great black whirlwind that sprang up out of nowhere, and of how the horse and its rider leapt up into the howling tempest and vanished into the sky faster than the eye could follow. Others were ready to swear that the earth itself had opened up with an ear-splitting roar and swallowed them into its gaping maw, before closing over them with a long, low groan like that of a soul in torment. What all would agree was that _something_ had happened, something that smote all their senses with unholy force -- and by the time they came back to themselves the dead witch, his infernal master, and the wild-eyed horse on which they rode were no longer there.

****

Miles and minutes blurred into each other as England raced across the fields with America's body tucked up against his own, a leaden weight beneath his supporting arm. His only goal was to put as much distance as possible between America and the men who had hanged him, and by the time he regained enough presence of mind to think about anything beyond that goal he realised that their mad flight could not be made to last. Sweat was trickling in rivulets down his back, and his arms and legs ached with the effort of holding America upright and trying to compensate for his unbalanced seat, but that was as nothing compared with his horse's woes. It was stumbling from fatigue, its foam-flecked sides heaving as it struggled to maintain England's unrelenting pace with the added burden on its back. Much more of this and it would put a foot wrong, pulling a muscle or breaking a leg, and then he would have a lame horse that would get them no nearer Boston than they were now.

They had to stop, if only for water.

Shifting his grip on America, he eased back into a shambling walk and began to look round for a suitable watering place. It was early enough in the winter that most of the streams had not yet frozen over, so when he found a likely-looking brook wending its way through a clump of trees he drew them over to a sheltered spot where he could dismount and let them both have a drink.

As his horse gulped greedily at the water, England bent down just long enough to cup his hands and scoop up a little for himself. The icy liquid was a much-needed shock to his system, clearing his head even as it burned its way down his throat. He shook a few stray droplets from his hands, then reached up to ease America's body from the saddle and dropped to his knees on the ground beside him.

America lay still, as limp and pliant as he had been when England's knife cut the rope from his neck. He was not breathing, not yet, but he would revive before long -- and England was determined that he should not awaken in the filthy, tattered garments that had come so near to being his graveclothes.

One task in particular could not be put off any longer. America's breeches and the tops of his stockings were stained with the contents of his bowels, voided in the final moments of his death throes. England took out his knife once more and hurriedly cut and tore away the ruined cloth, flinging the stinking scraps aside and keeping hold of the bits of fabric that were still clean enough to work with. Piece by piece, he dipped the remnants of cloth into the brook and used them to wipe away the remaining mess, gritting his teeth as the frigid water numbed his hands and soaked the cuffs of his coat.

His fingers were stiff and bloodless white by the time he rinsed off his hands and his knife and sat back on his heels to examine his handiwork. It was a poor, makeshift job, but for now it was the best he could do. He removed America's shoes -- worn and many times mended, but still salvageable -- and unclasped his own cloak. Even if America was beyond feeling the cold, it still seemed wrong to leave him exposed to the elements in nothing but a thin linen shirt, so he wrapped the cloak around America's body until he was swaddled in a double layer of wool.

'Not long now,' he murmured as he tucked the last fold into place. 'We'll be home before you wake, I promise.'

Getting to his feet was an exercise in ignoring the stabbing pains that shot up and down his legs. He made his way back to the stream, where his horse had finished slaking its thirst and was hunting around the mossy bank for any bit of grass it could find. England rummaged through the satchel strapped to his saddle and pulled out the only treat he had to hand: a smallish apple, dull yellow speckled with green, that he had added to his bag on a whim before leaving Boston. It was not much more than a mouthful for a fully grown horse, but the hungry animal seemed happy enough to take it from him.

'I wish I had more for you.' He ran a hand down the horse's neck as it devoured the apple, carding his fingers through the sweaty tangle of mane. 'I've pushed you so hard, and we've miles yet to go...but please, _get us home_.'

The horse nosed his empty hand, almost sympathetically, and England managed a wan smile in spite of himself. Horse and nation seemed to have reached an agreement, for the former waited with surprising patience while the latter adjusted the bit and bridle and tightened the girth on the saddle. It was an awkward task to get both America and himself up and onto the horse's back, but with sheer determination and a good deal of shoving he managed to regain his seat.

As they splashed across the stream, England tilted his head back and looked for the first faint glitter of stars to make a crude check of his position and direction. The early winter twilight was fast giving way to evening; even if he found the main road soon it would be a long, cold ride if he wanted to reach the outskirts of Boston before dawn.

Setting his jaw, he threaded the reins through his fingers and drew America closer to his chest. He had made a promise, and he would ride all night and into the next day if that was what it took to keep it.

Ursa Major and Ursa Minor were coming into view, shining through the trees just over his left shoulder. With gentle encouragement, England guided his horse around to put the pole star at his back, and set his sights south.

****

The house that England had chosen to occupy on his visit to the Bay Colony was north of the main harbour, perhaps a half-hour's brisk walk, and belonged to a well-to-do merchant who had gone on a final molasses run to Barbados before winter set in. It had been easy enough for England to arrange to rent it for the space of a month, introducing himself to the merchant's housekeeper as the young baronet Sir Arthur Kirkland, arrived in Boston on some deliberately unspecified business for the Crown. He had planned to introduce America to her as his nephew and heir presumptive, but in the circumstances such introductions would have to wait. He had another story to spin, and everything depended on his ability to spin it convincingly.

 _A little farther...a little farther...._ The words had been repeating on perpetual loop in his head since dawn, when the fields and woodland began to give way to the handful of landmarks that he remembered from his departure. He nearly wept from relief when he saw smoke rising from the chimney of the merchant's house, and urged his poor horse into a last-minute canter, though he was so weary from the ride that the change in gait felt like it would jolt the teeth from his head.

Outside the house, he slid from the saddle and hauled America down with him, as inelegantly as a man slinging a sack of oats over one shoulder. He had the key of the door, but at this early hour it would doubtless still be latched from the inside, so without even bothering to reach for the key he raised a hand and pounded on the wood.

'Martha!' he shouted breathlessly, calling for the housekeeper. 'Martha! Open the door!'

There was no sound from inside the house. England kept pounding, too short of breath to shout again, until he heard feet hastening across the floorboards. At the sound of the latch being lifted, he stepped back just in time for the door to open a crack and an eye to peer out.

'Sir Arthur?' The door opened fully, revealing an elderly woman in cap and apron, holding a single candle aloft. She stared at England, startled by his ashen-faced expression, and then let out a gasp when she caught sight of the bundle in his arms. 'What is -- '

'Stay back!' He kept America's head turned against his shoulder, shielded from the light of her candle. 'This child is at Death's door -- I fear it is the throat distemper.'

Martha pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes going wide with horror and pity -- and England felt a bitter sort of satisfaction at the knowledge that he had chosen his fiction well. Even the most learned medical treatises spoke of the disease, with its high fever and severe swelling of the neck and throat, as the _strangling angel_ for the swiftness with which it could carry off a once-healthy child. Seizing the opportunity provided by her surprise, he pushed past her, into the house, and began to rattle off orders before she could collect her wits enough to speak.

'Boil some water, a bucketful at least,' he said. 'Fetch some clean rags, as many as you can carry, and whatever brandy is in the house. Bring all of it up to my bedchamber and place it outside the door, then leave here at once and _do not come back_ until I send for you. Take my horse with you; your son can see to the stabling, I will pay for it.' Martha opened her mouth, protests already forming on her tongue, but England shook his head frantically. 'No, don't argue with me! I have had it before, and lived -- I must look after him myself. A doctor can do nothing for him now.'

Without giving her a chance to reply, he made for the stairs to the upper floor, praying that the fear of disease would be enough to make her obey him without question.

Inside the main bedchamber with the door safely shut, he laid the body on the floor and automatically turned to the empty fireplace. The radiant heat of the kitchen fire downstairs did only so much to warm the room, and it took three tries for England's frost-numbed hands to strike flint properly and catch the tinder. Once he had coaxed the first little flame to life he held his hands out to it, wincing as the growing heat prickled pins-and-needles in his joints. His fingers felt a little less stiff by the time he moved away from the fire to remove his coat and boots, tossing them to one side before he pulled America closer to the hearth, toward the light and warmth of the flames.

At last he would be able to assess the true extent of the damage, more carefully than he had been able to study it before. Steeling himself for the sight, he began to unwind the cloak.

Much of it was as he expected. The marks that the ropes had left around America's neck and wrists, deep abrasions and bruises showing livid on the skin, his face still dark and swollen and his lips bitten to a bloody mess -- all of the physical effects of a prolonged death by strangulation. He slipped a hand beneath America's head to look more closely at the underside of his chin, and stifled a curse when his fingers brushed what felt like more dried blood caked in America's hair, sticking to his scalp. Dark, furious whispers, nebulous and half-formed, were beginning to swirl in the corners of his mind, but the sound of a hesitant knock on the door banished them instantly and brought him back to the here and now.

'Sir Arthur?' Martha's voice trembled on the other side of the closed door. 'I...there's hot water, sir, as you asked for, and the rags, though there's not much brandy in the -- '

'Leave this house now, Martha.' The order came out more sharply than England had intended, so he continued, in a much softer tone, 'I will tend to matters here, and send for you when the danger has passed. There is nothing more you can do for either of us.'

Silence, for a moment, before the reply reached his ears. 'As...as you will, sir.'

England waited until he heard Martha leave the house before he opened the bedchamber door just wide enough to retrieve the items that she had left there. Once everything was inside the room, he closed the door and turned back to continue his work.

Much as he craved the warming rush that the brandy would bring, there were other, better uses for spirits. He had no salve for the deepest marks around America's neck and under his chin, nor for the newly discovered head wound, so he dipped a large scrap of linen in hot water, splashed it generously with the brandy, and dabbed at the wounds until no dirt or dried blood came away on the cloth. With more of the water and brandy and another bit of linen, he bathed the raw edges of the burns that the ropes had left on America's wrists, and did the same for the patchwork of mottled bruises about his legs and ankles. Once the bottle of brandy was empty, he carefully removed America's shirt, took two more rags, and used them to wash the rest of America's face and body, cleaning him of the sweat and grime that he had not been able to wipe away before.

Finally, he was able to set the half-empty bucket and the soiled rags aside, and went over to the bed to strip it of its uppermost sheet. He wrapped America loosely in the sheet, then gathered him into his arms and carried him to the bed, drawing the blankets and topquilt over him right up to his chin.

England had done all that he could. Naught remained but to wait for America to revive on his own.

Exhaustion was making his head swim and his muscles were screaming with fatigue, but he mustered what remained of his reserves to shed the rest of his sweat-soaked, travel-stained clothing and sponge himself down with some of the now-tepid water. He found a clean shirt and drawers and fumbled into them, and made his way to the far side of the bed to crawl under the quilt. All he needed was a few moments of rest, enough to see him through until America woke....

He was asleep before his head touched the pillow.

****

He awoke with a start, jolted into consciousness without warning.

His first instinct was to reach for his sword -- too many years of living on the knife's edge of danger had trained him to keep it close beside him at all times -- only to have his hand close on nothing but the smoothness of cloth. His mind scarcely had time to process this unexpected development before another jolt shook him, and a loud, wet rattling sound filled his ears.

( _choking to death by inches_ )

England rolled onto his side, blinking against the greyish half-light trickling through leaded-glass windows. The fire in the hearth had burned down to ash, but there was still enough light to see by, and what he saw told him all that he needed to know.

America had returned to life, but his return had not come gently or easily.

England could barely remember the circumstances of his first death, but he had never forgotten that first awakening: sprawled on a pebble-strewn beach, retching up a foul mixture of blood and sea-water as the Channel lapped sullenly at his ankles. Even though America was well away from the sea, he was nonetheless gasping like a landed fish, mouth opening and shutting as he struggled with the unfamiliar action of drawing breath. His body was seized with convulsions, powerful enough to make him arch his back off the bed, his spine and shoulders twisting as if pinioned by some invisible restraint. The rattling sound was the sound of air rushing into his long-starved lungs, now desperately seeking to make up for that deprivation.

'America!' England caught hold of a flailing arm before it could hit him in the face, and tried to slide his other hand behind America's head and neck to keep him from injuring himself further. 'Easy, easy now!'

'Arglh -- ' America shuddered as he drew another pained, rattling breath, nearly gagging from the effort.

'Hush, hush, I've got you.' England took advantage of the moment to pull America closer, shifting his position on the bed until they were sitting more upright at an angle that would make it easier for America to breathe. 'It's all right, America, it's all right. Don't fight it, just keep breathing.'

America coughed, a thick rasping noise that made England's own lungs ache to hear it. He was still twitching, not fully in control of his own limbs, but the initial violence of his spasms appeared to be subsiding. His eyelids fluttered, mirroring the uneven rise and fall of his chest -- an encouraging sign that he would not simply slip back into unconsciousness, beyond the reach of England's voice.

'America, can you hear me?' England kept his voice low and calm, for all that he wanted to grab hold of America's shoulders and physically shake him awake. 'Can you open your eyes for me? Open your eyes for me.' America's eyelids fluttered again, and the breaths he drew seemed to come more easily, which gave England more incentive to continue coaxing him towards wakefulness. 'I'm right here, I've got you -- don't try to speak, just open your eyes for me if you can.'

America blinked blearily, turning his head a little as if seeking out the source of the comforting words being murmured into his ear. Even in the weak daylight, he had to squint, and England felt almost physically ill when he saw how America's eyes were hazy and bloodshot instead of the clear sky-blue that they should have been. But after a few more blinks, his eyes began to focus -- and then went wide, unable or unwilling to believe what he was seeing. His mouth worked soundlessly before he spoke, in a choked half-whisper:

'Eng... _England_?'

England's breath caught in his throat. 'It's all right, America,' he said huskily, once he found his voice again. 'You're safe now -- you're safe with me.'

'England....' America stared up at him, bewildered -- and then his mouth trembled as his face began to crumple, and with a sudden sob he threw himself into England's arms. _'England!'_

England held on as tightly as he dared, murmuring _I'm here, I'm right here_ as America sobbed his name over and over again, shoulders shaking, small hands clinging to England's shirt. The storm of tears took some time to subside, gradually fading into wet snuffles and the occasional gulping sob that could not be entirely held back. Still trembling, America moved his head just enough to turn it to one side, resting on England's chest as his breathing began to slow to a steadier rhythm.

'You came.' He spoke so softly that England had to strain to hear him. 'I hoped...hoped you would c-come f'r me, and....' His grip tightened on England's shirt.

'I....' England's voice wavered, his eyes burning as he sought to hold back his own tears. 'I'm so sorry, America. I couldn't....' He swallowed heavily. 'I should have come sooner.'

America sniffled again, and wiped his nose on England's increasingly damp shirt. 'Hurts.'

'Where does it hurt?' England brushed the fringe of hair off America's forehead, pressing the back of his hand lightly against the skin to check for fever. 'What hurts most right now?'

'M' head. And throat.' America leaned into the touch of England's hand, cool by comparison with his own flushed skin. 'Everywhere.'

England swallowed again, trying to force down the lump that seemed to have lodged itself permanently in his own throat. 'You'll feel better soon,' he said lightly, stroking America's hair. 'You've only just woken. It will pass.'

There was little comfort he could offer but his own presence, in these first few hours when the pain was the worst. Yet America seemed to accept this, for he made an effort to resettle himself more closely against England's chest as England carefully ran his fingertips along the edges of the wounds he had treated. America's face was still red and swollen, but the mass of bruises about his neck and under his chin were showing signs of fading, their livid purple already turning yellow and green at the edges. Even the rope burns at his wrists looked less raw and angry than they had been when England had cleaned them with the brandy-soaked cloths. It would take time for all of the marks to disappear, but little by little America's body was recovering -- and England had every reason to hope that the young colony's natural strength and resilience would ensure that even the faintest of scars would fade before long.

Nevertheless, the purely physical trauma paled to insignificance before the marks that a surgeon's hands could not treat. Now that America was awake, England was faced with the rather more difficult task of examining those wounds as well. If he was to learn anything of the truth, it would only come while the most unpleasant memories were still fresh -- and so it was with a heavy heart that he asked, as gently as he could, 'America...do you remember what happened to you?'

America's brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the question. For a few uncertain seconds, England wondered if the shock of it all had been great enough to drive the memories of the events leading up to the hanging completely out of America's mind, but then America suddenly tensed in his arms, and with a terrified whimper he buried his face in England's chest.

Once again, England had to fight to keep his breathing steady and even, for America's sake as much as his own. 'Those men won't hurt you ever again,' he said through gritted teeth. 'They're far away now, miles and miles from here. You're safe now -- no one will harm you.'

America's entire body was quivering like a plucked string wound tight enough to snap. 'Scared,' he managed to say, in a thin voice that held as much shame as fear.

'It's all right to be scared. I was scared, too, when I saw what happened to you.' He rubbed America's back in slow, comforting circles. 'You've been so brave, so very brave. Can you be brave for me a little while longer?' After a moment, America nodded his head minutely, and England murmured quiet approval. 'I won't let anything happen to you. If you can tell me what happened, what you remember, I will do everything I can to see those men punished for what they did.'

At heart, he knew that there was precious little he could actually do to see that a punishment would be carried out. His standing as a nation ensured him an audience with the highest courts in the land, whether in the Bay Colony or at home, and yet he doubted that even the most sympathetic magistrate would be able to make much of the case. Even if he found a way to charge the men of the village with conspiracy and attempted murder for the extra-judicial hanging he had unwittingly interrupted, there was the very real problem of his own involvement in the matter. For all intents and purposes, he had killed their supposed witch and then fled with the corpse -- no matter that the corpse in question was now very much alive.

By his own laws, he was guilty. In his own mind, he was no less so. But if it would give America any amount of hope, he would try to see it through.

America had mostly stopped shivering, though he was far from calm. England could almost feel him working up the courage to put his ordeal into words. So he waited, patient but expectant, until America looked up at him and broke the lengthening silence.

'I...I used to p-play with their children.' He spoke hesitantly, as if picking his way through the memories on tiptoe. 'Showed them where the best nuts and b-berries were. Helped them with their chores sometimes, with the cows an' the firewood an' everything, so we could play together. But...b-but the frost came early this year, and the harvest wasn't very good even though everyone worked so hard to bring it in, and....' He closed his eyes, and put his head down on England's chest again. 'And then the children started to get sick.'

England remembered the maidservant's remark. 'A fever?'

America nodded miserably. 'The kind that gets in your bones -- I could hear them crying in their houses because it hurt so much. And the minister prayed over them, for deliver'nce he said, but it didn't help, because Anne and Jeremiah and little baby Alice died, and everyone was so sad and I was sad, too. But then Susannah started having fits, and...and she said she could feel something pinching her and sitting on her belly and making it hard to breathe -- and then p-people were saying witches had brought the fever.'

As the pieces began to fit together in their old familiar pattern, England felt his stomach churn with sick, helpless dread. 'How did you come to hear about all this?' he asked.

'Out catching rabbits. Caught more 'n I needed -- brought the two biggest ones to the village. Rabbit stew tastes good when you're sick,' he added, as if he thought an explanation was necessary.

'That was very generous of you.' The simple, innocent gesture tugged at his heart, conjuring up the fleeting memory of a little boy holding a rabbit almost as large as himself, all wide-eyed wonder in a sunlit field. 'And that's when you heard about the witches?'

America shivered again. 'A strange man was there. Hadn't ever seen him before. Had a big scar, all down one side of his face.'

The description was vague, but England dimly recalled one of the faces he had seen in the crowd, off to one side, a man who looked as if he'd had a close and memorable encounter with the business end of a knife or a hatchet. 'I saw him. Go on.'

'He was outside the meeting house. Talking with the minister and some of the other men. And he saw me, and asked who I was, and I said what you told me to say, that my name was Alfred and I lived near the woods....' Hesitating, he bit down on his lip, only to let out a hiss of pain when his teeth scraped the healing scab.

'Don't do that.' England used the edge of his thumb to wipe away the little bead of blood that had formed on America's lip before it could stain the linen. His other hand continued to move in a slow, encouraging circle on America's upper back. 'And then what happened?'

America's breath hitched, and he buried his face in England's shirt again, so that his next words came out muffled. 'H-he started...he started asking me about the Indians.'

England's hand stilled in mid-circle. 'America -- '

Mistaking the concern in England's voice for something more ominous, America's head snapped up, panic and fresh tears flooding his eyes.

 _'They didn't do it!'_ The words came out in a high, anxious wail. 'They didn't have anything to do with it! I know you said I wasn't to trust them, but they helped me set traps and catch fish and even gave me some beans and cornmeal when I didn't have enough last winter, and they wouldn't make little children sick, they _wouldn't_!' He slumped against England's side, exhausted by the outburst, fingers of one hand twisting the edge of the quilt. 'And I _tried_ to tell them that, b-but they were all looking at me with these scary faces and then they started asking me questions and I couldn't...I _couldn't_....' His voice cracked piteously.

'Shh, shh, I believe you!' England prised America's fingers from the quilt and twined them with his own, holding fast with what he hoped was a steady, reassuring pressure. 'I believe you, I do -- you did nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all.' All the same, he understood how the men of the village would have seen it, how the very idea would have been enough to stoke their fears of what lay beyond the fringes of their settled lands.

America clutched England's hand as if it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. 'They knew I p-played with their children,' he whimpered, near tears. 'The ones who'd died...the ones who were still sick. And then we were all in the meeting house but I don't know how we got there, and s-s-someone said that Susannah said she'd seen me standing by her b-bed, late at night, and that...that I was the one p-pinching her, and choking her, and that....' He trailed off into a broken whisper. 'That I'd d-done it to all the others, too.'

'You don't have to tell me any more,' England said, his voice tight. 'I know what happened next.'

America, however, didn't seem to be able to stop talking. 'Tried t' runnaway.' The words came out slurred, disjointed, only barely coherent. 'Almost did. Knocked a bunch of 'm down. But I think...think s'meone hit me.' He shook his head listlessly. 'It's...fuzzy. Don't rem'mber...hurt a lot, in my head, an' my hands...couldn't move my hands....'

England made gentle shushing noises, soothing America's thoughts away from the unspeakable terror of those final, interminable moments at the end of the rope. Vile as it was to contemplate, America's own strength had likely sealed his fate. After all, no _normal_ child would have been able to fight off that many grown men, not without the aid of some otherworldly power. Better to strike the witch down, bind him hand and foot, turn him off the nearest tree and leave him there -- with the prayer that Satan would come for his servant and spare their own children further torment.

'Didn't hurt anyone, England.' America's breathing was slowing, becoming more laboured. 'Promise.'

'I know,' England murmured. With his free hand, he found the quilt and pulled it over America's shoulders. 'I know you didn't, America.'

His eyelids fluttered closed as he nestled into the crook of England's arm. 'Not a witch.'

'You don't have to worry about that anymore.'

'Mm.' America sighed with a weariness that sounded far too old to be coming from someone so young. 'Tired.'

'Sleep now.' The order was needless -- America could not have stayed awake even if England demanded it -- but nonetheless it felt like a benediction of sorts, the gentle push into a healing slumber.

Once America's breathing had evened out, England let his head fall back against the pillow, exhaling slowly. The room was much darker than it had been when he first woke. Apparently, he and America had spent most of the day asleep, though he would not have been startled if someone had told him that he had slept the clock round and half again. It was also much colder now that the fire was out; even with the quilt and blankets, they would be chilled if they tried to spend another night without its heat. At some point, he would have to get up and fetch more wood, clear away the ashes, re-light the fire and bank it properly --

'...don' leave me.'

The tiny whisper hit him with the force of a cannonball to the chest.

He craned his neck to look down at America. The young colony was clearly asleep, his fingers slack in England's own, mouth hanging slightly open. It was too much to take in all at once; England had to look away before the tightness beneath his sternum became unbearable.

'I won't,' he whispered back, into the silence of the room.

****

It took the better part of a week for America to feel well enough to get out of bed. For the first few days he was weak and feverish, sleeping in fits and starts under England's watchful eye. He would drink if England held a cup to his lips, swallowing a few mouthfuls of cold sweet cider drawn from a barrel in the larder, but he had little appetite for anything other than pease porridge (which England mostly managed to avoid burning, though the peas were frequently on the crunchy side). Between meals, England let him sleep, and kept his mind and hands occupied by cutting down two of his own shirts and a pair of breeches for America to wear until they could fit him out with a proper suit of clothes.

Bit by bit, America began to sit up and take more interest in his surroundings -- especially at mealtimes. England knew that the young colony was well on the way to recovery when he ate all of the porridge that England put in front of him and started asking for more food, oyster stew and pigeon pie and corn pudding with molasses and other dishes that were well beyond England's limited cooking abilities. By that point, most of the redness and swelling on his face and neck had eased to only a slight puffiness and pinkness of the skin, and the rope burns at his wrists had almost completely disappeared. Even the wound at the back of his head had healed over, leaving only the thin line of a scar that would likely fade in time. He still had some difficulty keeping steady on his feet, though that was as much the result of a week's enforced bedrest as any residual effect of his more serious injuries. Regardless, England judged that enough time had passed for America's 'throat distemper' to have run its course, and the following morning he left the house for the first time in days (with hundreds of promises to America that yes, he _would_ return, and no, he wouldn't be gone long at all) to collect Martha from her eldest son's house in town.

He had been somewhat anxious about seeing the housekeeper again after he had sent her away so abruptly, but his worries turned out to be unfounded. She was overjoyed to see him and hear of his nephew's recovery, and eagerly agreed to visit the morning markets and buy enough food to prepare a substantial dinner for both of them, a nourishing meal that would build up the boy's strength.

'Master Alfred,' he said, as he handed her his key, 'is under strict orders to remain upstairs and rest until dinner. I have already told him that you have my express permission to scold him soundly and chase him straight back to bed if he tries to sneak into the kitchen and pester you at any point before I return.'

'Very well, sir.' Martha smiled, shrewdly but fondly. 'Will you be long in town today?'

'A few hours, perhaps. Why do you ask?'

She glanced up at the heavy cloud cover. 'There'll be snow before the day is out. Before nightfall, by the look of it. If you'd care to ride -- '

'I think I've had my fill of riding for a while yet,' England said ruefully, inwardly wincing at the thought of even one more hour in the saddle. 'The walk will do me good -- I won't be longer than I must.'

Leaving her, he made his way into the heart of Boston, calling first at the selectmen's offices in the town hall. Tongues had been wagging in his absence, for it seemed that every other person he met enquired after his own health and that of his nephew. He kept his replies brief and gracious, if rather vague, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. He was glad to look over the few documents that required something of his attention and then take his leave, heading down to the wharf and the harbourmaster's office. He came away from that meeting with a scrap of paper that had a list of dates and times written on it, which he folded carefully and tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. As he left the docks, a baker's shop caught his eye, and he stopped in to buy some penny buns for America and himself. He had other errands to run, but those could be put off. The air smelled strongly of snow, and America was waiting for him.

Martha was hard at work in the kitchen when he returned to the house, so he left her to her preparations and went up the stairs to the main bedchamber. America was sitting cross-legged before the fire, poking it with a long stick. He looked up as England entered the room, and the smile that lit up his face was so blindingly bright that England temporarily forgot how to breathe.

'You're back!' He scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around England's waist. 'You were gone for _ages_ ,' he said, a touch of worried accusation in his voice.

'I was no such thing,' England replied, a little huffily but without real irritation. 'A few hours is hardly _ages_.'

'It _was_ ages,' America said stubbornly, still with that same fretful note of concern. 'Don't like it when you go away.'

'Oh, is that so?' England disentangled himself long enough to go down on one knee, bringing himself closer to America's eye level. 'Then I've a bit of good news for you. When I was in town, I enquired after the ships bound for New York within the fortnight, and I've arranged passage for both of us on the next one out. We'll be spending the winter there.'

'In New York?' America looked puzzled, and then another brilliant smile spread across his face as England's words sank in. 'You're staying _all_ winter?'

'So it would seem. I have some business to attend to -- oof!' The rest of the sentence was cut off when America gave a squeak of pure delight and flung his arms around England's neck.

England felt a hopeless smile spread across his own face, and he let America cling to him for a long happy minute before patting him on the back and starting to ease out of his grip. 'Enough of that, now,' he said. 'Dinner won't be for a while yet, so I've brought a little something to tide us over until then.' As America let go, England took out the penny buns he had bought, now slightly squashed. 'Which one do you want?'

'The biggest one!' America said, without hesitation.

'Why, you greedy little brat.' England chuckled affectionately, and placed the larger of the two in America's hands. 'Here you are, then. Honestly, I don't know why I even bothered asking.'

They spent the rest of the afternoon warming their toes in front of the fire, as America asked question after question about what kind of ship they would be sailing on and what New York would be like and where they would be staying and what kind of business England had to do that would keep him on this side of the Atlantic all winter. England was nearly hoarse from talking by the time the delicious smells from downstairs indicated that dinner was ready, and he gratefully accepted the glass of Madeira that Martha poured for him as they sat down at the table.

One rather perfunctory grace later, America downed most of a bowl of bean broth in a single gulp and tore into the loaf of fresh-baked bread, chewing and swallowing so quickly that England had to admonish him to slow down and quit bolting his food before half of it went down the wrong way. Now that he had his appetite back, he seemed to be making up for lost time by eating every scrap of food set in front of him and asking for seconds and thirds. Martha was more than delighted to oblige him with increasingly generous helpings, and fussed over him throughout the meal. England, for his part, gave up on attempting to enforce proper table manners in favour of taking a second glass of Madeira and enjoying his own more reasonable portion of dinner before America cleaned the table entirely.

Three-quarters of the way into his second slice of dried apple and cranberry pie, America's head began to nod over his plate. England let him finish the last spoonful and ushered him from the table, though not before he had folded his napkin properly and thanked Martha for the meal. America dutifully did both and clattered up the stairs to prepare for bed, leaving England to finish his wine as Martha set about clearing the plates.

When he broke the news that they would be leaving Boston, Martha's face fell.

'Will Master Alfred be strong enough to brave the voyage?' she asked. 'It would be no trouble at all, sir, to look after him here until you return. Or if you'd consider it suitable for a young gentleman, my daughter's boy is about to be apprenticed, so she would have a bed and welcome for him under her roof as well.'

England found himself unexpectedly touched by the kindness of the offer. Throughout dinner, he had seen the housekeeper's eyes grow suspiciously bright when she looked at America, particularly when she came close enough to see the lingering puffiness in his cheeks and neck. She had no notion of what he really was or what he had gone through; all she saw was a child who was still recovering from an illness that had nearly taken his life. Under other circumstances he might have considered the offer more seriously, but instead he merely smiled and shook his head.

'It is very good of you to offer,' he replied, 'but I promised him that I would not leave him. When I found him....' His smile faded entirely, and he left the rest unsaid, trusting to Martha to draw her own conclusions that best fit into her version of events. 'It does not bear speaking of. Suffice it to say that I am the nearest he has to family, and where I go he will go as well, for as long as I am able to keep him with me.'

'As you think best, sir.' Martha brushed a few crumbs into her apron, and picked up the last serving dish. 'He seems a very bright boy.'

England had to stifle a snort. 'Too bright for his own good, if anything. But I have high hopes for him yet.' He downed the last of the Madeira and pushed his chair away from the table. 'I've a few letters to write, but you needn't stay up. I don't expect that I'll need anything more from you tonight -- I'll see to the latch, and we'll breakfast tomorrow when the boy wakes.'

****

The letters he had in mind were the usual reports that he was expected to send to the King. The question of whether His Majesty actually read them was something he generally chose not to dwell on for any length of time. (The Lord Protector certainly had, meddlesome old busybody that he was, but that was another thing England chose not to dwell on these days for entirely different reasons.) Looking after America had pushed the broader affairs of state out of the forefront of his thoughts, and now he had to at least attempt to turn his attention in more official directions.

He had no shortage of news to report, if the few notes he had managed to make thus far were anything to go by. France's constant nagging presence to the north, as obnoxious and unwanted as the nation himself, was not improving as he had hoped it would in spite of his own traders' efforts at breaking the back of the French monopoly over the fur trade. Spain was once again being a nuisance further south, and the still-vexed position of New York demanded more consideration than he had been able to give it of late. Though as for the last, he would be in New York with America soon enough, and....

No. It couldn't be soon enough.

Several times in the past week, while America slept, England had taken up his quill to sketch out a plausible legal case against the men of the village. And every time, he had run up against the sickening memory of that little body dangling from the tree branch -- and the dark little voices in the depths of his mind had started to whisper disturbingly elaborate details of punishments that had very little to do with due process under law and everything to do with inflicting as much pain as possible with a minimum of effort and a maximum of satisfaction on his part.

Only now, with America resting peacefully upstairs, could he admit to himself that those sinister thoughts had been the greatest influence on his decision to leave Boston at the earliest possible moment. He wanted America well away from the Bay Colony: not out of concern that anything else would happen to him, but rather because he did not entirely trust himself to act as a responsible nation should when dealing with his colonists. France had often accused him of holding grudges for longer than any of their kind would think sensible -- as if that wine-sodden bastard didn't take every conceivable opportunity to moan at him or anyone else who would listen about _ma pauvre Jeanne_ \-- but it stood to reason that removing them both from the scene would allow him to think about the crime with more detachment. More important, it would allow America to recover fully in a place that was out of the shadow of the gallows. And if his presence in New York helped to reinforce England's claim upon the settlements there, so much the better.

Regardless, it was plain that he wouldn't make any more progress on the reports this evening. He would rise early and tackle them with a fresh mind, and when America woke they would have breakfast and sort out the preparations for their departure.

It promised to be a blustery night. He could hear the timbers of the house creak and sigh as cold winds tried to slip in through the cracks and sneak down the chimney. But Martha had banked the main fire well before withdrawing to her own room, and the heat from its embers would help keep the house warm even as the temperature continued to fall. England tidied away his writing materials and snuffed one of the two candles he had been using for light. The second candle he took with him, shielding it against draughts with his free hand, and paused only to make a final check of the latch before heading up the stairs.

When he opened the bedchamber door, he fought back a resigned sigh at the sight of a familiar lump beneath the blankets of his bed. America had ignored the perfectly comfortable truckle-bed they had set up close to the fire earlier in the day, choosing instead to burrow down into his accustomed place on the near side of the larger bed. England had hoped for at least a few nights' respite from waking up to a small foot kicking him the side or a hand flopping into his face, but one more night of sharing would do no harm. He set the candle on the mantel-shelf and began to undress before the fire, shivering a little as the cold air hit his skin.

The noise of the wind was louder on the upper floor of the house. It rose and fell in volume, punctuated by the thin pattering of icy-wet flakes hitting the roof and window-glass, as England unwound his cravat and wrestled with the buttons on his waistcoat. He had just worked the last one free when a sharp gust rattled the window, and as he slipped out of the coat the moan of the wind rose to a near-shriek -- and was joined by another moan, much nearer and more anguished than any sound from outside.

'Don't...nngh, _don't_!'

Alarmed, England turned, and saw that America had thrown back the quilt and was starting to thrash about on the bed, legs twisted in the blankets and arms twitching feebly as they struck out against some unseen opponent. His moans were louder than the wind now, distress carving deep lines into his face.

'America!' England grabbed the candle, heedless of the dripping wax that nearly burned his fingers, and brought it closer to the bed. He took only a moment to put it down on the little table beside the bed before sitting on the edge of the mattress and laying a hand on America's shoulder, gently shaking him out of the nightmare. 'It's only a dream, just a bad dream -- '

At the touch of England's hand, America's eyes flew open, and an instant later England had a lap full of terrified colony, holding onto him tighter than a limpet to a rock at low tide.

'Don't let him,' America gasped. _'Don't let him pull me down!'_

'What?' England felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 'Who was -- '

'The Devil!' America's fingers dug claws into England's back. 'F-f-felt him g-grabbing my legs. Trying...t-t-trying to drag me down to Hell.'

England's heart seemed to stutter in his chest, and he tightened his hold on America, as if doing so would protect him from the darkness that was closing in around them, threatening to send them both falling headlong into a nightmare borne of reality.

'I wouldn't let him,' he said suddenly, fiercely, an open challenge to nothing and no one. 'I'd look him square in the face and spit in his eye, and I'd tell him that he'll have to roast me alive before I let him lay so much as a finger on you.'

The window rattled again as another blast of cold air shook the house, and America whined fearfully and hid his face against England's neck. England rocked them back and forth, eyes closed, muttering soothing nonsense in America's ear to drown out the howl of the wind. Once the wind was quiet, and America was quiet as well, he stopped moving and opened his eyes -- and then he smiled, as a flash of inspiration came to him.

'But that won't ever happen, and do you know why?' America shook his head, not looking up, and England continued, 'Because he knows that if he even _tries_ to work his mischief on you, I'll chase him down and catch him by the ear and give him such a thrashing that he'll be howling from one end of Hell to the other.'

Slowly, America lifted his head and peeked up at England, not quite believing his words but willing to be convinced. 'Really?'

'Truly.' England's smile broadened, almost to a grin, as the scene unfolded in his head, and he spoke with a confidence that came to him more easily with each word. 'And he'll be shouting and cursing and carrying on so loudly that all the saints and angels will start to look down from Heaven to see what the fuss is all about. And when they see what's what, they'll nod to each other and say, _"Ah, there's old England giving that Devil a right proper whipping, that's the spirit, keep at it!"_ \-- and by the time I've finished with him he'll be so sore that he won't be able to sit down until the Last Trump sounds.'

'That'll show 'm,' America mumbled into England's shoulder. 'Serve 'm right.'

'Quite so,' England agreed, nodding. 'He's a coward at heart, the Devil is: no match for anyone who's willing to take a good bit of birch to him. The moment you stand up to him, show him you've no fear of him -- why, that's the very moment he loses his hold over you, never to touch you or those dear to you again. So you see, that's how I know he won't be dragging you down to Hell...because he knows that he'll have to answer to _me_ , in the end.' America made a pleased, drowsy noise, and England's smile softened at the corners. 'Do you think you can fall back asleep now?'

'Mmph.' America was half-asleep already, the lines of fear and worry on his face long since dissolved. He put up no resistance when England shifted him back to the bed and drew up the bedclothes, smoothing them into place around him. '...England?'

'Yes?'

There was a pause, long enough for England to wonder if America had actually nodded off in mid-thought -- until a sleepy little voice, half-muted by the pillow beneath, drifted up from the warm nest of blankets and quilt.

'...'m glad you came for me.'

England's smile froze in place as his heart stuttered again, this time with an entirely different patter of beats. To hear those words, to hear them in spite of everything he had done and everything he had failed to do, was more than he could endure. A thousand replies surged up his throat, crowded his tongue, stopped his voice, and yet none of them could convey even a fraction of what he wanted America to hear from him.

'So am I,' he breathed at last, as his shaking fingers ghosted over the curve of America's cheek, illuminated by the uneven flicker of candlelight and firelight. 'Oh, my dear one, so am I.'

Outside the house, the wind had spent its fury and force, leaving behind only the stillness that follows a squall. The windows were wreathed in frost, but beyond the panes of leaded glass was a soft, impenetrable whirl of white. And as the winter's first snowfall settled upon the rooftops of Boston, the silence that stretched out across the land held the promise of a few hours of peace, preparing the world to face whatever the morning might bring.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story is drawn from the writings of prominent Boston minister Cotton Mather, specifically his accounts of the bewitchment of two young women around the time of the Salem trials. Mather's involvement (and culpability) in the Salem trials is still being debated, but his writings on witchcraft in New England are required reading for a serious scholar of the subject.
> 
> In England and the English colonies, the Witchcraft Act of 1604 declared that ' _any manner of Witchecrafte, Sorcerie, Charme or Inchantment_ ' that caused the harm or death of a person was a capital felony punishable by death by hanging. England had fewer overall executions for witchcraft than most other countries in Europe, and in spite of the predominant position that the 1691-92 Salem witch trials have in the general history of witchcraft in colonial America, witchcraft trials and convictions in colonial New England most often involved individual cases rather than wider outbreaks.
> 
> The standard profile of a suspected witch in colonial New England was a older woman, single or widowed and without close family or friends, who depended heavily on community charity and was in some way connected with a misfortune that befell her neighbours. Women who were better off or had living male relatives frequently were able to sue their accusers for slander -- unsurprisingly, this usually resulted in the charges against them being dropped or dismissed. Yet even those who were acquitted of witchcraft or had their cases dismissed faced reprisal from fearful neighbours, who often destroyed the accused witch's property, killing livestock or setting fire to houses or crops. Some acts of reprisal were even more personal and brutal, especially for those believed to be repeat offenders. In Hadley, Massachusetts, in the winter of 1684-85, the friends of a well-to-do man believed to have been bewitched into serious illness attacked a poor older woman who had previously been acquitted on charges of witchcraft. [By one account](http://www.bio.umass.edu/biology/conn.river/witch.html), she was hanged from a tree until she was nearly dead, then cut down and thrown into the snow and left there. That story, among others, went into the crafting of this one.
> 
> It was uncommon but not entirely unheard of for children to be accused of witchcraft, though most of these accusations involved children whose parents were already suspected of or had been arrested for the crime. Early in the Salem outbreak, five-year-old Dorcas Good was arrested and jailed after several of the possessed girls claimed that she had supernaturally attacked them in retribution for the arrest of her mother Sarah. Sarah Good was one of the first of the Salem accused to be convicted and executed, and Dorcas remained in prison for nearly a year until she was released in a general amnesty in early 1693. (Actual _executions_ of child witches were the exception rather than the rule, but executions of children younger than 10 have been recorded in Continental witch trials, and in at least one of these trials convicted children were held in prison until puberty -- age 14 for boys, age 12 for girls -- at which point they were sent to the stake.)
> 
> Throat distemper is one of several older names for the diseases that are now classified as diphtheria and scarlet fever. Diphtheria in particular (known as the _'strangling angel of children'_ ) was a common cause of childhood mortality well into the 20th century, and the Bay Colony suffered from periodic outbreaks of the disease, with two of the worst epidemics in 1659 and the 1730s.
> 
> Within a year of England and America's departure from Boston, New England will be caught up in King Philip's War (also known as the Metacom War), a bloody conflict between the Native Americans and the European settlers over land rights and other longstanding grievances. Recent scholarship has suggested that the disruption that the war caused to the social order of New England contributed to the severity of the Salem outbreak.
> 
> (Many thanks to those who read and commented on the original anon-meme fill, and to those who are reading here!)


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